A Necessary Murder

by M. J. Tjia

  A night at the theatre. It does sound enjoyable. Better than being alone, maudlin by the fireplace. But I feel a frisson of irritation that I’ve only been invited because they know I’m not otherwise engaged with Hatterleigh. I could cancel on Hatterleigh if I so desired, couldn’t I?

  I’m already pinning my hat to my hair when I ask, “But how do you know I do not have other plans?”

  His lips curl into a smile, crinkling his eyes. “Well, I suppose I was hoping you did not.”

  I cast about for my purse and fur, in order to avoid his eye.

  Crammed into the corner of the carriage is poor Isobel, who’s laughing that Milly’s ribbons are poking her in the eye. Next to Milly is the chubby gentleman she’d played cards with at my soiree. As Cosgrove helps me climb into the carriage, I see that I have to sit next to the tall young man, the one who was licking his lips over me the other night.

  Cosgrove squeezes in next to me. “Do you remember Thatcher and Webb?”

  Thatcher greets me cheerily. His cheeks are as rosy and round as apples. I glance up at Webb, to my right. Although he’s not licking his lips this time, they’re as wet and unattractive as I remember. His hair hangs unfashionably long and recedes from his large forehead.

  “Charmed,” he murmurs. His eyes gleam with what he, no doubt, thinks is a “knowing look”.

  “We’re going to the Grecian,” Milly tells me, her voice raised above the crunch of the carriage wheels. “To watch their pantomime.”

  “I did a season at the Grecian.” The words are surprised from me. I’m usually very careful about what I reveal of my past, but really, I don’t think I need to worry about this lot.

  “But that’s wonderful,” says Isobel. “Tell us of it!”

  As we trundle along the roads to Shoreditch, I regale them with stories of ponies that hauled spangled coaches onto the stage, of how the actors had to avoid stepping in the manure in their silk slippers. Of the time Dick Whittington’s “cat” caught alight and streaked through the audience, screaming, and when poor Harlequin fell down the trapdoor, mid sonnet, and broke her hip.

  “The last part I played there was as an Arabian princess in Aladdin,” I say, just as our carriage pulls into the side of the road outside the theatre.

  I’m the last to alight, and as Cosgrove takes my hand to help me climb down, he smiles, and says, “You’d be the perfect Arabian princess, madam,” but my pleasure at his remark is spoiled by Webb’s accompanying leer. I turn, roll my eyes, and Isobel presses her lips together, suppressing a grin.

  Disappointingly, Cosgrove walks ahead, with Milly and Isobel on either side, while I’m left flanked by the younger men. Just as we enter the theatre, Isobel runs back to me, links her arm in mine.

  Cosgrove pays a shilling each for us to have seats in the boxes, which are up two flights of steps. The theatre is quite full, and we’re a little late in taking our seats towards the back. A milkmaid and a shepherd are singing something nonsensical yet witty, going by the laughter of the audience. Rather than disturb the patrons already seated, Cosgrove and Webb, both tall men, decide to stand at the back of the box until there’s a break in the performance. The others edge into their seats, and I follow, taking the one closest to the aisle.

  I’m just settling the taffeta skirts of my gown—olive green, but with a lovely burnished finish—about my knees when I feel a tap on my shoulder. A slight figure kneels by my side.

  “Heloise, dear, it is you.” Kitty, a stage hand I know from when I worked here, clutches my wrist. “You’re not up for a bit of a romp again, are you? We’re in a bit of a tight spot.”

  “What is it?”

  “Well, poor Madge—remember her? Small thing, wears a different wig every day?—well, she’s got somethin’ wrong with her innards. Started clutching her sides and spewing. Had to call for the doctor, we did. But now we’re without a Red Riding Hood.”

  I stare at Kitty for a moment, conscious of Isobel listening in beside me.

  “But…” I haven’t taken to the stage in over two years now. I glance along the row at my companions. I don’t want to appear foolish; or, more to the point, cheapen myself in their eyes. “Surely someone else can cover for her.”

  Kitty shakes her head. “Everyone’s performing tonight. Even Jasper, the prompt.”

  Isobel nudges me. “Go on, Heloise. If you don’t, I will!”

  Cosgrove appears in the aisle behind Kitty. “Is there a problem, Heloise?”

  I laugh up at him, lightly, but I watch for his reaction as I say, “Kitty here wants me to take a part in the pantomime. But, of course, it is impossible.”

  “But Heloise,” Kitty beseeches me, “they’ve finally allowed me to take to the stage. I’m to be the Wolf, but if there’s no Red Riding Hood…”

  I stare into her anxious eyes, and relent a little. “What will I wear, though? I won’t fit into Madge’s costume. I’m far taller than her.” More buxom, too, from memory.

  A wide smile lifts Kitty’s face. “All you need is the red cape, Heloise. Anyone will recognise you from that. You’ll do it then?”

  Isobel and Milly giggle behind me, pinch my arm, whisper, “Go! Go!” Excitement bubbles in my chest. I can’t deny I’m drawn to the prospect. The exhilaration of being on stage, shining brighter than the limelight. The chance to show off my acting abilities to my friends; my talent for drawing the eye with an expression or word.

  I get to my feet and say to Kitty, “Of course I’ll help you.” As I pass Cosgrove, who looks amused, I widen my eyes, as if I don’t know what I’ve gotten myself into, but really, in my head, I’m already applying greasepaint to my face, wondering what lines I might have to learn.

  “You don’t have to say anything on stage,” says Kitty, as she shoves a goblin from the seat in front of the dressing room mirror. “We’re just part of the general ensemble of fairy tale characters.”

  She’s already tugged the gown from my body, and now lathers pale cream across my face, pats it out across my forehead.

  “Who was that delicious man you were with?” she asks. “The last I saw of you, you were with that ugly farmer type. A lord or something.”

  I rub pink circles onto my cheeks. “That’s Maurice Cosgrove. Just a friend.”

  “Nice friend,” she says, winking in the mirror at me.

  I grin, but can’t wink back in case I smudge the black paste I’ve applied to my eyelashes, which now have the thick curl of chrysanthemum petals.

  After I’ve swapped my gown for layers of frilly petticoat and a red cloak, and Kitty dons her wolf suit—which includes a full head mask of whiskery brown fur and gleaming yellow eyes—we join the others by the side of the stage. Kitty tells me that all I have to do is run from her once in a while, a game of hide-and-seek. As we wait in the wings, I’m jostled on one side by Mother Goose, who’s bearded and fat, and on my other side, I think, by Sleeping Beauty. Kitty bumps into my shoulder three times, half-blind in her mask.

  The fairy council flitters from the stage and Kitty pushes me forward, whispers, “We’re on.”

  I follow Rapunzel, careful not to step on her trailing hair, golden as buttered corn, sweeping wisps of dust along with it.

  For one moment I’m so dazzled by the monstrous pomp on stage, I pause, so that Mother Goose runs into me, swears under his breath. Stage lights glitter, and tall mirrors line the back of the stage, multiplying the colourful crowd of fairy tale characters. We must be a magnificent sight from the stalls and boxes—the golden crowns, the elves’ green collars, the sparkling crystal chips on the Fairy Godmother’s dress. Up close, though, the splendour is marred by the smell of dust, body odour and fresh paint.

  Cinderella joins us, but not in a horse-drawn carriage, as I’ve seen countless times before. She’s lowered in a basket that is attached to a billowing, golden orb that’s supposed to be a hot air balloon. The audience gasp and clap. I almost do myself.

  From what I’ve gathered so far, the fairies are mourning
the loss of a precious gem from which they get their magical powers, and the Frog Prince tells us that we’ve been gathered to find a hero who will find it for them. I position myself towards the front of the stage. I won’t peer into the boxes for Cosgrove and the others, but I’m sure their eyes are on me. I play my part by ducking behind a prince in order to hide from the Wolf, and I’m having so much fun, I wish I was cast as the hero. If only I knew the lines.

  A trapdoor, not two metres in front of me, drops open and Puss in Boots springs into the air, and lands with a smart flourish at the front of the stage. In a pretty contralto voice, Puss in Boots sings of the power of le chat, of the cunning pussy, and while some of the audience laugh, many just nod along with the song, oblivious to the wordplay.

  Puss in Boots has a lovely cascade of chestnut hair under her tricorne, and her legs… Oh god, I wish I was wearing tights like that too, showing off the length and curve of my limbs. I start to feel a steady tick of irritation that she’s in the spotlight, and I’m hidden beneath this ghastly cloak.

  Just as Puss in Boots hums her last note, Kitty slams into me from behind. I squeal, as my part requires, and pretend to run away. Hansel and Gretel are ahead of me, holding hands, and as I surge forward, I collide with their locked hands, somersault over. I land in a flurry of petticoats, and the red riding hood falls from my shoulders. Pain ricochets from my buttocks, but it’s worth the laugh from the audience. For one moment, everyone’s watching me, not that stupid Puss in Boots.

  CHAPTER 9

  The morning air is so cold I wrench the divan a little closer to the fireplace in the parlour and lie upon it, bunching the cushions beneath my head. I actually feel quite fresh, apart from the bruise on my bum. No headache, not too weary. I didn’t drink too much in the end, being caught up with the pantomime.

  I’m enjoying a new book, one by Braddon. I’m up to the part where Eleanor marries Monckton but only so she can keep investigating her father’s death. What a pity she has to leave off her gallivanting. Of course, Eleanor really does love Monckton, she just has to keep secrets from him. Secrets. Secrets seem to be a necessary part of a woman’s existence if she is to live a whole life, it would seem. My life is so full of them, it’s sometimes difficult to prise the real from the make-believe.

  Abigail brings me a cup of steaming chocolate mid-morning, and a slice of lamb pie for lunch. She must’ve enjoyed some of it herself, too, in the kitchen, for I see crumbs of pastry caught in the downy rabbit fur on her lip.

  “Madam, may I ask you, but where is Amah from exactly?” she asks me as she clears the tray.

  I sit up straighter in the divan, rearrange the cushions. “Well, she’s Chinese.” I peep up at her face. She doesn’t seem put out. It’d be a nuisance to have to find a new housemaid so soon again.

  “Yes, I know that, madam. But is she from China?”

  I shake my head. “Ah, no. She’s from the Malaya area.”

  “She speaks very good English,” Abigail says, but really it’s a question. She’s by the door, and I let her go without further comment. Amah’s business is hers to tell, not mine.

  For the rest of the afternoon I read and doze. The room has darkened by the time I get to the end of the novel and I angle the pages so that the light from the fire illuminates the words. I close the book and rest it against my breast. What a pity Eleanor had to sink into the vapours as well as her husband’s arms, in the end. But there was such a fuss about Braddon’s last book, I’m not surprised she’s thrown conservative sop to the critics.

  Rain lashes against the glass, so heavily the world outside is a blur. Standing, I clasp my dressing gown closer around my body, sink my nose into the swansdown ruffle. I make my way to the window and place my hand against the chill glass. The wind whistles its way through the gaps at the edges of the window frames. The street is empty apart from a slight figure making his way along the footpath and a brown brougham parked across the way. The horses are drenched, but there’s no sign of the coachman.

  Bundle enters the parlour with the evening paper. He pulls a small table to the fireplace and flattens out the wet sheets of newspaper to dry.

  “I’m sorry, madam,” he says. “The paperboy did his best.”

  I look back out the window. Horizontal sheets of rain drive the young man back down the street, and floods of water gush against his heels. “The poor thing.”

  I wonder how much longer his route is, if he has somewhere dry to bed down later. I remember one night when a couple of us took refuge from weather such as this under a bush in Kew Gardens because it was too late to sneak into the Palm House. What a miserable night that was. I shiver and rub my hands up and down my arms. I’m confident—absolutely resolute, in fact—that I will not be caught out like that ever again.

  Taking a seat on the edge of the divan, I peer down at the front page, careful not to smudge my fingers or clothing on the damp ink. A picture of a fine house, its many windows blotted black with rainwater, takes up half the page, under the words, Second Murder at St Chad’s Lodge.

  A second crime has been committed, brother to the hideous wickedness so recently delivered upon the Lovejoy family of Stoke Newington. We may well remember the heinous murder of young Margaret Lovejoy, poor creature, found lifeless in the water closet. This crime, quite without parallel in our criminal records, has been repeated upon the father, one Erasmus Timothy Lovejoy. As far as we understand the story, Mr Lovejoy was locking the side gate to his property, after loosing the watchdog from its pen. The murderer or murderess had stolen upon him, either secretly or brazenly, we cannot say. Taking out some sort of blade, cunning and razor-sharp, the culprit had cut Mr Lovejoy’s throat to the very vertebrae, and then thrust him face down into the horses’ water trough.

  My eyes run through the rest of the article, in which the reporter issues instructions on how the police should investigate the murder, and finishes with: We must all do our part to assist the police in finding who is guilty for these foul deeds.

  Bloody hell. Lovejoy. The same grey gentleman I met just yesterday. Squishing my bottom lip between my fingers, I stare into space, remembering his trembling hands, his confused state.

  I wrench the front page from the rest and leap to my feet so quickly I bang my knee against the table, knocking the rest of the newspaper to the floor. Hobbling into the hallway, I ask Abigail, who’s straightening a bouquet of hyacinth in a crystal vase, “Abigail, have you seen Amah today?”

  She tosses her head towards the top of the house. “Up in her room, I expect. She’d be mad to be out in this gale.”

  I hurry up the two flights of stairs, and I’m quite winded by the time I rap on Amah’s door. I push it open, nearly knocking her in the nose.

  “What is it, Heloise?” she asks, looking past me in alarm.

  “Look at this.” I take a seat at the round table in Amah’s sitting room, spread the front page flat across the table, accidentally sweeping the silk embroidery she’s been working upon onto the floor. But even as she reads, squinting down at the small print, I say, “Lovejoy. He was here just yesterday. He’s the father of that child that was murdered.”

  Amah pulls a chair out next to mine, lowers herself slowly. She picks up the shawl she is embroidering for me, places it on the back of her chair, but it slips to the floor again under the weight of its lace border.

  “Was his throat cut too?” she asks.

  “Yes. The same as the girl. It says his head was almost severed altogether. Just like McBride.”

  I notice the colour has faded from Amah’s face.

  She presses her eyes together for a moment, then frowns. “Why? Why?”

  “Nobody knows.” I’m puzzled by Amah’s reaction. I’ve seen her amongst the mayhem of murder, the blood, the stench. Usually she doesn’t turn a hair. I wonder if the poor thing is still upset by the other night, if she has been thinking of how close she was to being a victim herself? After all, Amah usually has the upper hand in these situations—Ama
h and her bitey little switchblade. “But surely his death has to be connected to McBride’s. They’re so similar.”

  Amah stands up so abruptly, the chair totters behind her. She hurries to the window and, pressing her forehead to the glass, she gazes up and down the street.

  I join her. “What are you looking for?”

  She just shakes her head, the crease between her brows more pronounced.

  I become still, then draw back behind the curtains. A chill draught ripples across my skin, which has nothing to do with the storm. Amah’s watching for the killer. She thinks he might be outside.

  I frown. But why would McBride’s murderer return here?

  A green carriage nudges in behind the brougham across the road. A man climbs down into the street, lands in a puddle. He covers his head with what looks like a magazine. As he darts across to my house, the brougham’s door swings open, releasing another man who follows the first.

  The rapping on the front door is so loud, so persistent, we can hear it from two levels up. I run to the top of the stairs, lean on the newel as Bundle opens the door. The voices are too low, too hurried, for me to hear clearly, though, over the rush of rain slapping against the doorstep.

  Bundle shuts the door. It’s quiet again, so I know he hasn’t allowed the men to enter. I hurry down the stairs and, pausing on the first landing, lean over the banister until I can see Bundle’s shadow. “Who was it, Bundle?”

  He takes a step forward so I can see him. “Reporters, Mrs Chancey.”

  My shoulders relax a little. Have they heard of my turn at the Grecian last night? Maybe they’ve come to ask me of the crowds in Hyde Park. How very forward to hunt me down in my home. I smile. Rather pleasing, though.

  “Apparently there has been another murder. Lovejoy, I believe they said,” says Bundle, his deep voice as smooth, as toneless as usual. “They seem to think it is connected with the murder committed here two nights ago. Said the methods were similar.”